[your title here]

it seems like life itself becomes most realized in the instances we feel it slipping away from ourselves.
we will all one day fill a room and a casket and have our stories told one more time.
we are all hypocrates beliving our destruction to be instead the force of creation. you can tell im upset when i use 'we are all'. we are though, you and i; we thought we were so creative and different, when clearly we're self-destructive and egotistical enough to confound that with creativity. enough of that creativity else i'd destroy myself completely. humans. pff.
one of the uses of anger is finding strength to fight for yourself.

i am getting older: i have a wisdom tooth, a deceased grandfather, an aching left breast, a cough that wont go away, a past i can no longer feign to understand as a totality, my sister is engaged, im almost done a degree, and i prefer my own company for now.

im listening to modest mouse's 'The moon and antartica'. 3rd planet, gravity rides everything, dark centre of the universe, and perfect disguise, and the stars are projectors is some good listening, though this blog has never been used before to drop names and titles in music.

on rideau when the traffic went quiet a singular note realized its way into my schema, and i noticed there was some classical music playing; not too unusual. it interrupted me briefly like other insignia of a false and foolish memory base. skeptics ethics and all. memory being that brief shadow which struts and frets its hour upon the stage, or is that life? what is life other than attempting to renegotiate our memories for what suits us.
maybe.

if anyone was taking this philosphical-political blog seriously, im sorry. this wont happen again. im writing from the heart with the mind, when instead its nicer to write from the mind while wondering about the heart in secret.

i guess the bad news is personal today folks.
im going to go think thoughts im paying to think of.